


Nothing Green In Kirkwall

by pridecookies



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, F/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26769034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pridecookies/pseuds/pridecookies
Summary: Renan Lavellan transitions into her new life in Kirkwall and Dorian comes to visit.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Hawke/Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Lavellan & Solas
Kudos: 3





	Nothing Green In Kirkwall

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This isn't a fluffy Solavellan piece in any way, shape, or form. It's a Solas Critical viewpoint.

There was nothing green in Kirkwall. Nothing bloomed, there was no subtle sound of wind as it wisped ever quietly through emerald trees. It was cold and relentless and human in every respect. Good. Renan was tired of the elves, her people were shattered and their history was tainted. There was a time in her life when human institutions and their meaningless politics and pedantic discussions of religious power structures were tedious. Now she found it comforting. It was far removed from the lies that lingered still, much easier to swallow. It didn’t matter so much. Before it enraged her but that was before, when she was Inquisitor Renan Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste, the leader of the Inquisition.  
Now, she was just Ren.   
She sat up from where she slept, on the floor. It was hard to get used to the softness of a bed when you spent your childhood sleeping on the ground. Her hair, cut short now for ease, stuck up in the middle. With her remaining arm, she tucked the chaotic strands back into place and got up. Dorian had written to her recently, asking to visit, and she had cautiously acquiesced. It had been months since the Exalted Council and she still carried it with her, an unending ache in her heart, a cavern in her chest where that most precious organ should have been. There were phantom feelings in her fingers, traces of where her left arm used to be. Hushed whispers found her when she slept, lost in the Fade, screaming on the inside. There were things that would seek her out, secrets, moments, a foreboding sense of something watching, some sort of ethereal creature, not wolf or man but in between.  
_Vhenan_.   
It never left her.  
_Vhenan_.   
It refused to be silenced.  
_Vhenan_.  
It would not cease in its relentless mocking and it always woke her in cold sweat. This morning was no different. When she did wake, she did her best to steady her breathing. It was the sheer panic that was so present in those moments, it overwhelmed her in waves and made her feel like her skin was vibrating. It used to be that sleep was a comfort and her bed was not empty. Now, when she dreamt she was filled with terror. As best she could, she sat up and calmed herself down. The dreams had been worse the last several weeks, more visceral and demanding. It was rare she woke rested, but rather more exhausted than the day before. Each moment meant for rest was tearing into her like the wolves of the plains tore into what was left of the halla they had hunted. The irony of that thought was not lost on her.   
She walked downstairs, approaching the front hall of the house Varric had gifted her. To be frank, the place was shit. It had not been well-kept over the years and Kirkwalll was not exactly Orlais. Ren cared very little. It was a good place to hide. When the Exalted Council had been informed of the danger that Fen’Harel posed, they erupted. The chaos that followed her dispansion of the Inquisition and the Qun, Tevinter, and all of Thedas aggressively pointing their finger at her as the figurehead was too heavy a burden to bear on weakened legs and an archer bereft of an arm. When elves themselves began to desert cities, clans and alienages in mass numbers to join Fen’Harel’s forces, that fear increased. If the Nightmare Demon had her now, it could feast on her for ages. Everything within her screamed.  
“Take moments of happiness where you find them,” Inquisitor Ameridan had told her, “The world will take the rest.”  
He was right. It did.   
When she got downstairs, there was a knock at the door.   
“Dorian,” Ren murmured, a tired smile beginning to form. Cautious, but still a smile.   
She opened the door and that smile dissipated immediately.   
Dorian was indeed there, but he was not alone. There were several others with him. Ren frowned and protectively kept her remaining hand on the door frame.   
“Dorian,” she warned.  
“Well, Inquisitor--”  
“I’m--”  
“Right,” he said, brushing past her, “--not the Inquisitor. Old habits and all that. You are looking pretty as a picture, aren’t you.” The look she gave the shem would have petrified an army faster than the Dread Wolf ever could. Dorian smirked, “You’re right. You look terrible. Let me introduce you to my companions,” he gestured widely, with his usual flourish.  
There were three with him: a female elf that Ren recognized as Charter, a spy that worked for Leliana back in Haven, a human man and a dwarf. She lifted a brow. The dwarf man looked at peace, comfortable, even happy. The human, however, eyed her with caution and potentially disdain. She could not tell if he was awkward or enraged. It could be both.   
“Well, then,” Ren sighed, “What do you want?”  
“Information, mostly,” the human man said, his arms crossed.  
She glanced at him a moment, then back at Dorian. “I assume this is the network you are working with, yes?” Dorian nodded. “Everything your organization requested, I have given. Charter can attest to that, she was part of the Inquisition. I handed over any intelligence we had at the time of disbandment to aid your fight. Whatever you need, you won’t find with me.”  
“Yes,” the man nodded, “You did, for the most part. Practical intelligence information, anything regarding Fen’Harel’s past organizations, contextual significance within your own culture. It was helpful, thank you.” “Then what more do you want?”  
“You offered everything you had on the Dread Wolf. You offered nothing on Solas.”  
Ren frowned, “They are one in the same.”  
“No,” the man said, his jaw flexed, “You misunderstand me. What you offered our organization was tactical, strategic. It was intelligence information that anyone in your position would have gathered. You offered nothing from your personal experience. That would be infinitely more helpful. Seeker Cassandra, Varric, other members of the Inquisition that were close with him were happy to speak with us. You have yet to do so.”  
“I see,” Ren murmured, her eyes narrowed.  
“You see,” the man narrowed his eyes, “And yet, you still don’t offer.”  
“Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you forced your way into my home, without introduction,” she crossed her arm.  
“Alright,” the man conceded, “My name is Svenric, I am working with the resistance in Tevinter. Dorian told many of us what happened at the Exalted Council and I was one of the few that listened, a little more digging on my part filled in the rest.”  
Charter spoke for the first time. “I helped with that,” she shrugged, “Sorry, your Worship. Had to be done.”  
Ren was small. She was Dalish, after all. But she squared up against the man all the same, back straight, remaining arm resting behind it.   
“If you have something to say, shemlan,” she spat, “Say it.”  
“You’re an elf.”  
“Excellent skills of observation, your mother must be very proud.”  
“We know from firsthand information that Fen’Harel strives to make life better for the elves, as he sees it. Strange, isn’t it? You fought so tirelessly against the Hakkonites and the Venatori, yet now you retire. I recognize you have a handicap--” he gestured to her arm, “--but that would not have stopped you before. From what I have heard, it was paramount to you to secure Briala with a place of influence in Orlais,” he took a step toward her, “and you did whatever was necessary. I have to wonder how far that goes.”  
“Wait,” Ren blinked and glanced at Dorian, then back at the man, “What do you mean firsthand information?” she asked and the man shook his head, satisfied with myself.  
“You have proven my point. Out of everything I just implied, that was what you heard. And you wonder why those of us that are sacrificing our lives doubt your allegiance.”

Ren’s jaw flexed, “I am more than familiar with sacrifice. She’s been my bedfellow for years.”  
“Sacrifice wasn’t your only bedfellow, Inquisitor.”  
She stopped, fixed to the floor. There was a feeling of fury, shame, and an acute desire to vomit that overtook Ren. Dorian stood up and placed his hands on her now tense shoulders, “Pleasure first, business later. I have not seen my dearest friend in months, I would like to speak with her privately first. Then, perhaps,” he lifted a brow at the man, “We can discuss the matter further.”  
With a flourish, he escorted her to the other room and briskly closed the door behind him. Her rage was beginning to spill over. Pacing the floor like a rabid dog, fist flex, eyes wild, she suddenly had the urge to break something. Dorian watched apologetically.   
“I asked him not to do that, if it's any consolation.”  
She stared at him, trying to regulate her breathing and calm herself down. Exhausted, she fell into a nearby chair and rested her forehead in her hand.  
“After everything I have done,” she sighed, “they still want more.” She glared at him, “There’s not much left of me for the crows to pick at and still you bring them here.”  
“I didn’t,” Dorian explained, “We were all in Kirkwall, my plan was to see you alone. But it seems they knew you were also here and expected as much, they insisted.”  
“Why were you in Kirkwall?”  
Dorian shifted, “Charter met with some of our allies. Tevinter, the Qun, some strange little man in a hood. They gave us some information. Remarkable, isn’t it? All it took for peace was one poorly dressed apostate and his plan to reshape reality.” He sat down across from her, his expression guarded. “There was an incident here, several weeks ago. A Red Lyrium artifact was stolen.”  
“By Fen’Harel’s agents?” Ren frowned.  
“You don’t have to call him that in private, you know.”  
“It’s who he is,” she said flatly, “I will call him exactly that.”  
He studied her a moment, then continued. “The idol was stolen, yes. But not by his agents. He came himself.”

The mage watched her, waiting for some kind response but her expression was unchanged.  
“Well,” he mused, “I assumed that would garner some sort of reaction.”  
“Dorian,” Ren warned, “You just told me that Solas has a Red Lyrium idol in his possession. That is infinitely more important than whether or not he was in Kirkwall—“ she frowned, “Makes me wonder what it’s for,” she stood, “Worry what it’s for. It’s disturbing.”  
“You are a strange little bird, you know,” She lifted a brow and Dorian settled in  
his chair. “You were distraught after he left. I vividly remember you screaming at Leliana to expand her resources to find him. It was the only time I have ever seen her look genuinely uncomfortable. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.”  
“I was angry.”  
“You were more than that.”  
“It wasn’t my finest moment,” she sighed.  
“Yes,” he prodded, “and neither was Crestwood.”  
“Dorian.”  
“I am trying to illustrate a point, Inquisitor. And before you correct me—“ he held up a hand, “—title or no, I called you that for years and it is just too exhausting to change my ways now. My point being that for a time, he was important to you. I was there. Sound carries in the rotunda, you know. Besides,” he sighed, “you screamed at him so loudly when you returned from Crestwood that some say it still resounds throughout Skyhold to this day, the echoes of a violent--arguably insane--Dalish woman shouting something along the lines of, ‘You bastard, you bastard, you saccriminous bastard’.”  
“Insane?” she sneered.  
“Oh, don’t worry,” the mage crossed his legs, “Insanity doesn’t bother me in the slightest. You forget, I spent years with Alexius. Insanity is like good taste, I expect it in all my friends.”  
Ren smiled, briefly. She shifted in her seat, “I had a reason to be angry.  
“Of course, dear. You loved him.”  
“I loved someone, I haven’t denied that. But you can’t mourn someone who didn’t exist.”  
“I’m afraid you’ve left me rather in the dark.”   
“I prayed to the Evanuris before I realized what they really were,” Ren explained, leaning in, “then I didn’t anymore. Whatever Solas was before, he’s a threat now,” she stood, leaning against the wall where the window faced the street, “Run from it, hide from it, fear it. It doesn’t matter. The truth reveals itself all the same. So, yes. I cared once. I don’t anymore. He left ruin in his wake and he will do it again if he lives.”  
“I see,” Dorian mused, “Still having the dreams?” Her lip twitched and Dorian nodded. “Thought so.”  
“When was he in Kirkwall,” she said slowly.   
“Roughly two weeks ago, we think.”  
She gave the mage a worried expression, “That’s what I thought.”  
“Do you care to elaborate?”  
“Telana, do you remember her?”  
“Ameridan’s lover.”  
“She was a Dreamer.”  
“Yes, and?”  
“Before she died, she sought him out in dreams. Solas has done the same.”  
Dorian stiffened in his chair, “How do you know?”  
“Some nights feel different, sometimes it’s a vague sense of dread. But there are other times when I feel—“ she searched for the words, “—open, vulnerable. Like I am being watched. Even without the Anchor I still feel shifts in it.”  
“You think he’s watching you?”  
“I was acutely aware of it about two weeks ago, I woke up in a cold sweat. Felt sick. There were things I saw in dreams I won’t repeat. Probably when he was here in Kirkwall. I have to wonder if the lessened physical distance somehow made it more focused.”  
“Do you feel threatened?”  
“I don’t know,” Ren said softly, “Concerned, mostly. Dirsturbed. Vulnerable,” she sat back down in her chair, “That is why I disbanded the Inquisition, left Skyhold, stayed quiet here. If I was personally involved in the resistance, I would be nothing more than a liability.”  
“Why?”  
“The Well. You saw the Deep Roads, the Shrines to the Dread Wolf. Where Mythal was honored, Fen’Harel was not far behind. They were close. I imagine she aides him now. When we met her,” Ren rubbed her eyes, “she was able to take physical control of me. And, you heard what your associate said. My record as Inquisitor was undoubtedly biased toward my people. Considering that it is, indeed, an elven god that threatens Thedas now, it may be a sore point for any allies you hope to gather against him. Not to mention Briala had control of the Eluvians and he now does himself. Briala only had access to power in Orlais because I made sure of it. I ruined a perfectly good dress with bloodstains making sure of it.”  
“You did what you thought was right at the time.”  
“And it achieved nothing,” Ren sighed, “I told him once after Haven they would find a way to blame elves. I was right. It won’t matter what I do or what I say. All they see is a knife-ear letting an elven god tear the world to pieces for the sake of Elvhenan. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, it fits the narrative they’ve told for millennia. They erased Ameridan from history, his culture and his heritage. I imagine they will do the same with me. Well,” she laughed, hollow and dark, “if there is something left of the world when Solas is done with it.”

“I have to ask,” Dorian murmured, “When he told you his plan, did he ask for you help?”  
“No,” she shook her head, “and I did not offer it.”  
“You used to talk about Arlathan for hours, wept over the Library of Vir Dirthara. After the Temple of Mythal you were more elated and distraught at once than I thought was physically possible for someone so small. It isn’t something you considered?”  
Ren looked at him with a pained expression, “You think that little of me?”  
“No,” he countered, “I was merely asking the question. I have to admit, I wondered.”  
“What I want doesn’t matter. Solas can’t repair this, it’s irrevocable. Not that he understands that. Ma banal las halamshir var vhen.”  
“Meaning?”  
“I accused him of doing nothing for our people. It was a point of contention. Ironically,” she leaned against the chair, “what he wants to do for our people is far worse than doing nothing at all. I would have preferred he stayed in the rotunda and complained. It would have grated my ears and no doubtedly shortened my life from the sheer annoyance of it but at least we wouldn’t be faced with his chaos.”  
“If they find him,” Dorian prodded, “they’ll kill him.”  
“They’ll try,” Ren murmured, “I wish them luck with that, it has yet to be done.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Mythal, the Evanuris, they didn’t die. Finding Solas is one thing, killing him is another entirely. Although,” Ren mused, “if he succeeds, it won’t matter. I imagine he wouldn’t put up much of a fight after that, he walks the din'anshiral. In some ways, he’s already dead.”  
“You’re truly riveting, you know. I think I caught the faintest glimmer of emotion - no, that was but a trick of the light. You’re as frigid and wooden as usual. Congratulations.” Ren crossed her arms. “I must say I’m surprised you’d give up on something so... easily.”   
“I told you I was a liability.”  
“You thought I was referring to the resistance? Come now, I’m hardly a fool.”  
“And that means?”  
“Oh, nothing. That dreary apostate you were so in love with - even Cassandra has the hope of saving his life, you must realize that. Yet it seems as though you’re ready to kill him yourself... a touch callous, even for you.”  
“Aren’t you?”  
“Remarkably, no.”  
“Then you’re more foolish than I thought.”  
“You know,” Dorian prodded, “you were never good at dancing. I saw you at the Winter Palace and it was atrocious,” he paused, rather dramatically, “Let’s stop trying to dance around this one, shall we?” He softened and leaned in on his chair, “I do care for you, you know. As happy as I was to see you come back to us through the Eluvian, I dearly hope to never see that look on your face again.”  
“If you remember,” Ren snapped, “My arm was disintegrating. That hurts a bit.”  
“Naturally. I suppose that was why you were screaming,” he murmured, “I’d like to think I know you a little better than that, though. I’ve watched you suture your own wounds with nary such a heart-wrenching expression.”  
Pulling her knees into her chest, she rested her forehead on them, “Thousands of years of destructive choices aren’t swayed by the words of one woman, Dorian,” Ren said softly, “It is done and I have let go of it.”  
“Rather grim.”  
“Grim is all I have. The best outcome is he dies. The worst outcome is the world itself dies. Not much room there for a ballad. Regret is not something I intend to linger in.”  
“I see,” Dorian sighed, unconvinced but ceasing his interrogation. The sounds of voices in the hall prompted his glance, and he turned to her with a mischievous smile on his face, “We ought to just pop out that window, you know. I’m sure there’s a horrible tavern around the corner - we can get respectably shitfaced and be back before anyone is the wiser.”  
“Absolutely not,” Ren rolled her eyes and Dorian chuckled.  
“Probably for the best, I remember the last time I saw you drink,” he smiled, “There you were, our fearless leader, smiling like a simpleton and muttering to yourself about dragons; which I suppose I can blame Iron Bull for. You were making the saddest attempt I’ve ever seen to whisper sweet nothings - sweet Maker, I hope never to know that those might entail between the two of you... elven ruins, perhaps? - when you could barely speak in clear syllables. There was Solas, unamused and unsure; at war with himself between concern at the state of you and annoyance. Then of course, there was me; watching from above with horrified interest, fascinated and unable to tear my eyes away from the incredible awkwardness of his attempts to help you back to your tower. Remarkable,” Dorian trailed off, lost in the memory with a faint smile on his face. He glanced back at Renan. She was not smiling. Her face reminded him of a child, woken from a nightmare. It was that same look she had when they were in the Darvaarad: a chaotic mess of horror and grief and heartache.   
“Ah,” he said softly, “There she is.”  
She shook her head as if somehow by doing so she could will the tears back into her eyes. There were weeks after the Council when this happened to her, but it had become too painful to bear, too heavy a burden to carry. So, she did what she did best and she killed it in herself. With the same violence that she operated in as Inquisitor, she sundered the feelings of regret and fear and shame from herself and branded her heart with its own kind of Tranquility. Dorian held out a hand, encouraging her to allow the release. With shallow breaths and a frantic wheezing, she began to sob. Keeling over, she fell to her knees and let the grief of the past several years pour out of her now frail body. The weight of the Inquisition, what she saw in Redcliffe, the loss of her Clan, the joy of friendships gained and relationships mended, the quiet moments in Herald’s Rest with a warm fire and a cold drink, moments once precious now tinged with despair, the thrill of victory and the bitter taste of betrayal. Dorian knelt beside her in silence, a comforting hand on her shoulder, coaxing her through it.   
“There, now,” he said after some time had passed and she had begun to calm down, “That wasn’t so hard was it?”  
Ren wiped her nose and rolled her eyes, “Shut up, Dorian,” she coughed. However, she did feel... cleaner somehow, cleansed of some of the burden. It felt good.  
“We should get back to it, when you’re ready,” he said, standing, “Charter has news that you might want to hear.”  
Ren stood, wiping her eyes and brushing her hair back with her hands, “She met with some of your contacts, you mentioned.”  
“Yes,” Dorian said slowly, “They’re all dead now, I’m afraid.”  
“What?”  
“Well,” he sighed, “They ran into some… trouble. They were--” he looked at her apologetically, “--well, they were petrified.”  
Ren stared at him for a moment.   
“Well, shit,” she cursed, her grief starting to subdue and her rage overpower what was left of it. She felt the waves coming and like her grief before, was overpowering her.   
“There’s that psychotic anger I know and love so.”  
Renan nodded, “Distract me, please. Tell me something.”  
“Bull is doing well, so he says in his correspondence,” the mage sighed, “I haven’t seen him in months but that’s to be expected. At some point he and I are going to have to be adults and face reality. The erotic letters are still surprising, I won’t bore you with the details—“  
“Dorian,” Ren pleaded, “Tell me something good.”  
“Varric took me to the Hanged Man,” Dorian sneered, “It was remarkably grotesque and somehow, I adored it.”  
With that, Ren burst into laughter. It was working. She was calming down.   
“It really is the most miserable shithole,” she croaked, “Still, it has its charms.”  
“Yes,” the Tevinter said, his eyebrow raised, “I did meet one of its charms, you know. I did not have the pleasure of meeting the Champion himself when he offered his aid at Adamant. It was nice to talk with him. He can hold his liquor rather well.”  
Ren chuckled, “Infinitely better than I can. Much to his dismay.” Her breathing was more steady now. The rush was diminishing and she was more settled.  
“Varric tells me that Hawke is often here.”  
With a wry smile, Ren nodded, “Yes, he is.”  
“Fancy that,” the mage prodded and she rolled her eyes, “Here I was thinking my dearest elven supremacist would never tarry from her insufferable elitism, and yet she beds a shemlen hero. Love truly works miracles,” he teased and Ren crossed her arms.  
“You presume a great deal.”  
“Incorrectly?”  
Ren twitched, “No.”  
“Well, then,” Dorian smiled, “It isn’t all doom and gloom.”  
With a shy smile, Ren softened, “I suppose we will see. Love is a strong word for it, though.”  
“And lust may be too weak, in this case. You haven’t exactly been eager for my kind. Sometimes I wonder if you ended up with Solas because he was the only other that rhapsodized about the ancient elves as much as you did. Ironic, considering.”  
“That isn’t entirely wrong,” Ren sighed, “We had common interests and I was isolated from my clan, and other elves. It made sense.”  
“Am I presumptuous to assume that Hawke doesn’t ‘make sense’ to you?”  
“He didn’t, no. Not at first. I never consider humans to be something I wanted. I felt—“ she searched for the words, “—a kinship when we met in Skyhold. Maybe if I had been more available I would have thought more of it. I was still desperately confused, the collateral of Solas’ war with himself. Hawke and I,” she paused, a small smile, “We have a great deal in common.”  
“Pray, tell.”  
“Sex, for one.”  
Dorian smiled, “I imagine that’s a welcome change.”  
“He makes me laugh.”  
“Practically a miracle in it itself.”  
“There’s also Anders.”  
“Ah, yes. The healer. I read Varric’s book. How does that pertain to you?”  
Ren stood up and walked to the door, “What Hawke and I lack in commonality we more than make up for in memory. Lies, betrayal, grief. He watched everything burn at the hands of a lover--” she paused, “--and so did I.” Ren turned to Dorian, her eyes filled with hurt she would never truly part with, but her fists balled tight. “‘Anger can save you when everything else is gone’, Vivienne told me that once. Well, Dorian. Everything else is gone. And I am so... angry.”  
“Then use your anger,” Dorian said, “Meet with the resistance.”  
Renan sighed. “Alright,” she agreed. “Let’s meet with them.”


End file.
